


A Demonstration

by tei



Series: Vampire John [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Rape Roleplay, Vampire John, Vampire John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-05 04:45:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16803898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tei/pseuds/tei
Summary: John needs a special occasion, so Sherlock gets one.





	A Demonstration

**Author's Note:**

> The CNTW is just to refer you to the tags. Everything here is consensual, promise! <3

Sherlock hangs up his coat and deposits his keys on the table, frowning. The flat is empty. John is usually home from work by now, but over the years Sherlock has learned that John likes it when Sherlock carries on without him when he’s away. It seems to bring the ridiculously domestic vampire an inordinate amount of pleasure to come home late from the clinic, having received zero panicked texts from Sherlock, and find his partner unconcernedly drinking tea on the couch. 

He particularly enjoys having Sherlock give a full account of his activities for the day, and then listen with something resembling attention while John regales him with tales of ear infections prescribed for, pap smears performed, and vaccinations given-- which would be unbearably dull if it weren’t for the fact that John Watson, heroically restrained vampire doctor, is the hero of all of them.

It’s utterly bizarre. Certainly the most strange and inexplicable thing in his relationship with John, Sherlock is entirely sure. But he does it, because he would admittedly do anything for John. 

He decides that John would probably be pleased if he came home to find Sherlock eating, so he makes a sandwich and then carefully lays it out on the table with a single bite taken out of it, to be resumed at the exact moment he hears John’s footsteps coming up the stairs. 

As he’s about to throw himself down on the couch to wait, he frowns. One of the cushions is gone. John had left after him that morning, so it must be his doing, but Sherlock can’t think why he might have moved it. He opens the door to the bedroom, intending to see if it had ended up there--

\--and immediately feels a blaze of pain as his arms are twisted behind his back and efficiently zip-tied together before he can so much as see his attacker. 

Sherlock immediately sweeps a leg behind him, but John-- for it is, Sherlock realizes now, John Watson attacking him-- is too strong. Sherlock is never quite sure how much of John’s strength is training and how much is supernatural; perhaps, at a certain point, it all blends together. In any case, he is _very_ strong, and Sherlock doesn’t bother resisting as he is thrown down onto the bed, the vampire looming over him. 

And John _is_ full vampire, at the moment. His fangs are fully extended, resting lightly on his lower lip and glistening as John’s tongue darts out to lick his lips. His pupils are wide and feral, staring down at his captive with a predatory intensity. 

It’s incredible. And terrifying. John has never looked at Sherlock like this before; even when Sherlock begs John to bite him, even when John drinks from him and fucks him while whispering filthy tales of his past in Sherlock’s ear, John always remains, somehow, resolutely _human_. 

He’s not now. Every trace of human feeling seems to have disappeared from his face, and his voice is hard when he growls, “Handy, isn’t it, to not need to breathe or fidget? I could have waited for you as long as it took.”

Sherlock gasps. John is looming over him. He’s clearly hard, and clearly hungry. 

“...John?” says Sherlock in a small voice. “Are you… quite alright?”

Nobody else on earth would have noticed; but Sherlock is, well, Sherlock. He can read the subtle shift of John’s muscles; not pulling away, just becoming slightly less viscerally threatening. His eyebrows raise nearly imperceptibly and somehow his eyes soften, returning to their usual liquid blue. 

“Oh” breathes Sherlock, and cock twitches to attention. John is quite alright. He is _more_ than alright, John is _brilliant,_ John is going to hold him down and ravish him and drink from him and there’s nothing Sherlock can do about it, and that is wonderful.

John sees it, and immediately the brief trace of kindness seeps out of his eyes. “Oh, _I’m_ just fine,” he sneers. “You’re the one in rather a bind, here.” His cool fingers undo Sherlock’s trousers brusquely, and he grabs the fabric at the knee and yanks, pulling the trousers all the way off and Sherlock’s pants halfway off, his cock caught in the elastic waistband on their way down. Sherlock, of course, can’t move his arms, so he has to wait for John to come back up and yank the pants down too, casting a critical eye at Sherlock’s erection. 

“Pretty little thing,” John says, pushing Sherlock’s knees apart and climbing onto the bed in between them. “I can smell the blood flowing through you. Feeding that nice thick cockstand of yours. I’m going to suck every last drop of it out of you.”

Sherlock shivers, then all the air goes suddenly out of him when John’s entire weight comes down on his torso. John is _heavy,_ and although he usually remembers to breathe for the comfort of other people, he isn’t now, so Sherlock doesn’t even have the subtle rise and fall of his stomach to allow for some movement of his own lungs. 

John’s fully clothed erection grinds against bare skin, and John braces his elbows on either side of Sherlock’s torso-- being careful not to take any of his weight onto his arms-- and is breathing heavily into Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock can’t get a proper breath, and he can feel the carbon dioxide building up in his bloodstream. 

John grinds down into him harder, pinching the sensitive skin of his thigh with the zipper on his trousers. Sherlock can’t breathe. Oxygen is just a gas. He knows the panic building up in his chest is just chemistry, too much of the wrong gas sending signals to his brain that he doesn’t need to pay attention to, he _can’t_ \--

“Please,” he gasps, “get-- _don’t…_ ”

But that isn’t the word John needs for him to actually stop, and they both know it. John doesn’t move an inch, and with no preamble, he bites down into the skin of Sherlock’s shoulder. 

Sherlock screams. It hurts, and he wasn’t expecting to be bitten yet, and John only takes a little, so the intoxicating effect of the bite barely has time to take hold. He squeezes his eyes closed, briefly considering safewording-- but no. He can do this. He wants this. 

John’s mouth drifts away and he stares down at the pinprick of blood leaking from Sherlock’s shoulder. “Delicious,” he mutters. “Yes, this will do very nicely indeed. Suck my cock for me. And if I feel any teeth, you're a dead man, and painfully.”

He abruptly pushes himself up and positions himself on his hands and knees over Sherlock’s face. With his arms bound behind his back, Sherlock can’t move his head very effectively, so he has to wait for John to feed him his cock, inch by inch. Soon enough, the tip is just bumping the back of Sherlock’s throat, and he tamps down the urge to gag. John will let him breathe. Eventually. Probably. 

As he forces himself to stay calm and receptive, he finds that he no longer cares very much whether or not he will be permitted air.

John finally begins to thrust in and out of Sherlock’s mouth, allowing Sherlock to gasp in a breath between each stroke before swallowing him down again. As usual, his hard skin feels cool at first, and gradually takes on Sherlock’s body heat. Sherlock loves John’s skin cold; a delicious reminder of what he really is, the danger folded tight inside his unassuming body. And he loves it equally when John is warm, every scrap of heat in him Sherlock’s own heat, given freely. Or in this case, taken roughly. 

“That’s enough,” John growls, pulling away and ignoring the wisp of saliva that trails out of Sherlock’s mouth and down his chin. “Gonna fuck you now. Then--” he grins, maliciously. “You know what comes after that.”

Sherlock feels something rising in him, roiling like a storm, hot and delicious. Oh yes, he wants to be fucked. And he will be. But he won’t go down without a fight. 

He shoves his knees up so that his feet are flat against the mattress and twists deftly out from underneath John’s pelvis. “ _No,_ ” he cries desperately, and before John can get back on top of him, Sherlock brings his feet up, manages to catch one on John’s hip and one on his shoulder and kicks with all his might. John very nearly goes tumbling off the bed, and keeps himself in place only by grabbing wildly for Sherlock’s left ankle. Sherlock nearly succeeds in twisting away again but his own useless arms are an impediment to moving his upper body very fast, and John just barely gets a hold of him, his nails scraping angry red welts into Sherlock’s leg. 

John’s growl comes deep and terrifyingly loud, god, Sherlock’s never heard him do it that _loud_ before, and the impulse that causes him to kick wildly and try to scoot away from the vampire is entirely instinctive, now. His heart is pounding and the edges of his vision are starting to narrow in, all he can feel is the animal need to get away, _run_ \--

John manages to grab hold of his other ankle. His feet are being yanked apart and John kneels with his legs angled out a little, so that he can capture Sherlock’s calves with the pressure of his ankles. John is clambering out of his shirt, and then replaces his two ankles with a single hand holding Sherlock’s still-twitching legs down as he yanks his own trousers and pants off. 

“That,” growls John, “was _very_ stupid.” Sherlock feels tears leaking out of his eyes, unbidden, at the overwhelming prey feeling of being completely trapped. “I was going to make this easy for you,” John continues. “Maybe even a little bit pleasant. But now you’ve got me irritated, ridiculous human.” 

It’s no feat at all for John to continue holding both of Sherlock’s ankles in one hand while he roots around under the bed with the other. He pulls out two lengths of rope, and flips Sherlock over onto his belly. He makes quick work of tying Sherlock’s ankles to the bedposts at the foot of the bed, spreading him out helplessly, entirely immobilized. 

The relentless, thrumming fear doesn’t disappear; it’s more like the fear is slowly drowned in the liquid clarity that there is nothing to be done. Sherlock goes limp, his tears sticking to his lashes. He feels a breath escape him. He’s helpless, utterly overwhelmed. It’s glorious.

Before he can prepare himself for it, John’s right arm slides under his belly to haul him up slightly, forcing him to rest on his shoulders with his arse in the air. He feels two fingers thrust roughly into him, only opening his tense passage up a tiny bit before it’s replaced with the slick, spit-warmed cock which pushes in relentlessly. Sherlock can’t help himself from moaning brokenly, but it sounds far away even to his own ears. He is aware he is babbling, “please, please, please--” and John understands, because in this place “please stop” and “please more” mean exactly the same. 

It burns and stretches and then fades into dull pain and then distant pleasure. Sherlock is very aware of the cadence of his shoulders being driven into the mattress, and only vaguely aware of the thick cock in his arse and the rough hands gripping his sides hard enough to bruise. He simply waits, allowing John to take what he wants. 

Finally, _finally_ , there is a bloom of warmth inside of him, John immediately wraps one arm around Sherlock’s chest and one around his lower belly, locking himself in place as he comes. Sherlock’s arms throb, trapped in between their two bodies, but John doesn’t let go; instead, he just rolls a little to the side, and Sherlock’s legs twist against their bonds, the ropes chafing his skin as his ankles cross over each other in the new position. 

John’s hand slips down to grasp Sherlock’s cock, and Sherlock gasps. It’s like having cold water thrown on him, except the cold water is the sudden, blazing awareness of his ignored arousal. Suddenly he is desperate, aching, and extremely glad that John has no interest in teasing. He jerks Sherlock roughly and whispers in his ear, low and dangerous, “it’s time.”

Sherlock can’t speak, couldn’t possibly say yes or no to this and is distantly glad he doesn’t have to. John’s hand tightens on his prick, and then the pain hits; more pain than usual. John is being messy, letting his fangs linger in Sherlock’s shoulder before he starts licking and sucking and soothing. Sherlock’s teeth clench together and every muscle in his body tightens-- and the moment John relents, feeding Sherlock’s blood back into his own body laced with the heady intoxicant of a vampire’s saliva, Sherlock comes. 

It’s so intense it’s painful, and the full-body pain of the orgasm and the deep, insistent pain of the bite blend together into perfect pleasure. Sherlock feels himself being pulled under, out of his own mind and into a place where nothing can touch him, and all that exists is John, and then there’s nothing. 

The next thing Sherlock is aware of is that his shoulders are very sore. 

He cracks an eye open. The dusky light filtering through the curtain illuminates his own lower body; the ropes are still tied to the foot-posts of the bed, but his ankles are no longer tied into them. There are faint red marks in a circular pattern around them, and more defined ones where John scratched and held him. 

He’s slumped back, his back to John’s now-warm chest. The zip-ties that had held his arms together are on the floor, and John is massaging his sore shoulders. Sherlock gasps, then sighs as he hits a particularly sensitive spot. 

“Welcome back,” John whispers tenderly. Sherlock judges that his voice isn’t quite ready for use yet, so he just nuzzles his head back into the curve of John’s neck. 

John sighs, and lowers his head slightly to lick over the puncture marks in Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock shivers, but it just causes him to burrow even further back, and when that doesn’t satisfy he turns around, wrapping his arms around John’s torso and burying his face in the vampire’s belly. 

John’s hand run up and down his back in luxurious swirling patterns. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “You’re mine. I love you so much, Sherlock, god. Did I hurt you?” He sounds merely curious.

Sherlock considers, taking stock of the ache in his shoulder and arms and arse and ribs. He nods slowly against John’s skin.

“Mmm,” rumbles John. Thoughtful. “Too much?”

Sherlock shakes his head vigorously, and finally finds his voice to croak out, “It was _perfect._ ”

He feels the air leave John’s lungs in a relieved sigh, and hauls himself up to sitting, still curled as closely around John as he can, but able to see his face. John is watching him and glowing, in the way only John Watson can despite technically being dead. But then, he has Sherlock’s blood in him now. Sherlock is helping him glow. He can’t think of a single better use for the stuff than that. 

Sherlock manages to rouse his mind enough to take quick stock of the bedroom and the discarded clothes on the floor. John had only been at the clinic for a few hours-- he’d gone home early, to ensure he was here to lie in wait for Sherlock. He’d clearly arranged the ropes in easy reach, suspecting there might be a struggle, and taken the pillow from the sitting room as a crude trap. But--

“Why?” Sherlock asks suspiciously. “I loved it, John, but why today?” He’d asked John for variations on this multiple times, and although John had never outright refused permanently, Sherlock certainly hadn’t been expecting him to take initiative with it to quite this extent. 

John grins. “Call it a demonstration,” he says. 

Sherlock frowns. “A demonstration,” he says slowly. “Of what? I already knew what you were capable of.” He shivers again, and quickly adds, “Not that I mind.”

John licks his lips. “Of what I’m offering,” he says. “The deepest, wildest, most demonic part of me. And I want something from you in return.”

This statement probably should warrant some thought, but it doesn’t. “Anything,” says Sherlock, with no hesitation. 

John bends down and fishes his trousers from the floor. 

He pulls a small box out of the pocket. 

Sherlock had… missed that. Somehow. Perhaps he can blame the fact that he was busy being ravished. John looks very nervous. 

“Humanity,” John says firmly. “I never thought I would get to have this. I went off to the war-- the first time-- with my whole life ahead of me, and… there were things I thought I would get to have. After the war. Settle down. Build a life. Argue about whose turn it is to clean the kitchen.” He smiles wistfully. 

“And then… _this_ happened,” John continues, gesturing vaguely at his gradually cooling body, “And I gave it all up. How could I be a monster, the monster that I am, and want what I want, and still want... all the rest? I figured it was impossible.”

Sherlock is starting to smile now, despite himself, because he can see where this is going, and the residual tears sticking to his lashes from their earlier encounter are starting to feel liquid again. 

“And then you happened,” says John. “You walked into my life and took me, god Sherlock, you took all of me just as I am. And now… I think maybe I _can_. I can have it all--” he chuckles-- “if I ask nicely. I know domesticity isn’t your strong suit, so I figured I’d need a special occasion. To ask.”

He opens the box with trembling fingers, and there are two plain white gold rings in there, because of course there are, and Sherlock has to tear his eyes away from it so he can see John’s face while he says, “Marry me. I want to put a ring on your finger, and kiss you in front of all of our friends, and carry you over the doorstep of 221b Baker St. I want your humanity. I want to have a life with you like the one I thought I had lost.”

Sherlock is grinning brilliantly now, the one that slips out despite himself whenever when he’s about to solve a case. “You get my humanity,” he says, “And I get your brutality.” 

John’s tongue darts out again, flicking over the sharp fangs that are still pushing through his gums. “Among other things,” he murmurs, and drops a gentle kiss to the tender skin where he claimed Sherlock’s blood.

Sherlock surges forward, climbing on top of him and claiming John’s mouth so that the words are nearly lost when he says, “I’d do anything for you, John. Of course I’ll marry you. Of course.”

They’re nearly asleep, limbs tangled together and the rings placed on the side table after having been carefully inspected and then set aside so as to preserve some sense of mystery for the day itself, when Sherlock stirs a little. 

“John?” he whispers.

He feels John’s hand curl on his back in response. 

“Do you want my humanity… forever?”

He can hear John swallow in the darkness. “Humanity doesn’t last forever,” John says.

Sherlock doesn’t speak, can’t speak. 

“But if you’ll have me for that long… then god, yes, Sherlock. Let me have you human first. Let me be as human as I can be, for a while. But eventually… if you want forever, then it’s yours, my love.”

Sherlock curls tight around him, warming John with his heat. He savours the feeling of his own heartbeat, fragile, limited, precious, and entirely for John. 

Forever.


End file.
